Page 12 of Twisted Paths

I take an automatic step back, nostrils burning. “I’m pretty sure this is illegal.”

Mrs Higgins tuts. “Good grief, lad, what have you been eating?”

Bernard, true to form, does nothing. He just sits there, staring into the void like a man reflecting on all his past mistakes.

Mrs Higgins sighs, adjusting her walking stick. “Well, I can’t have you two suffering like this.”

I hesitate. “What do you—”

“Oh, you and Nancy go on ahead,” she says, far too cheerfully. “I’ll bring up the rear with Bernard.”

Nancy’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s—”

“Really, I insist,” Mrs Higgins says, nodding firmly. “Young legs like yours should be stretching out, enjoying the pace. I’ll take my time.”

I glance at Nancy, who looks absolutely like she wants to argue but also desperately does not want to stand near Bernard for another second.

She clears her throat. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“Oh, positive, love,” Mrs Higgins says, already shuffling a few steps back, taking Bernard with her. “Go on, you two, lead the way!”

Nancy presses her lips together, looking resigned.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders before stepping forward.

This is very clearly a setup.

But considering the alternative is remaining in a toxic gas cloud, I’m willing to walk straight into it.

I’ll escape before the pub anyway.

The only sound is the steady rhythm of boots on packed earth, the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the soft click-clack of Mrs Higgins’ walking stick behind us.

Nancy strides ahead, arms swinging lightly at her sides, her pace sure and even. I match her step without thinking, hands tucked in my pockets, my eyes flicking to the landscape stretching out ahead. Fields roll into the distance, dry-stone walls crisscrossing the hills, the sky a soft patchwork of blue and shifting clouds.

Neither of us speaks.

A bird calls somewhere in the distance, answered by another. The wind stirs through the hedgerows, carrying the crisp scent of grass and earth.

Behind us, click-clack.

Then—deep, low, and drawn out—a sound rumbles through the air.

Nancy’s shoulders tense. My jaw tightens. Neither of us turns around.

Silence, except for the steady crunch of gravel beneath our boots.

A moment passes.

Then another.

Nancy lets out a slow breath, her hands briefly tightening into fists before relaxing again. “At least he’s downwind now.”

I nod once. “Small mercies.”

Nancy adjusts the strap of her rucksack, her fingers brushing absently over the buckle. A beat of silence passes. Then, with the kind of casual tone that suggests effort, she says, “So, what do you do?”

My steps falter for half a second, barely noticeable.

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